


Pardon My Paranoia

by AnotherLoser



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Dybbuk - Freeform, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranoia, Paranoid Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Canon, Psychiatric Patient Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is Noah, Slightly - Freeform, because stiles is different, canon is still here its just different, so events are altered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:34:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherLoser/pseuds/AnotherLoser
Summary: He kind of misses his buzzcut.  Running his hand over the short but oh so soft hair, nothing to pull on or get his fingers tangled in.  He’d originally shaved it when he was twelve, woken up standing in the kitchen at one in the morning.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd, fair warning. And while I do have a plan for a lot of this, I don't know how long it will go on yet. Aaand last thing; while I definitely plan to put my own spin on Greenberg, a lot of this interpretation of him comes from my friend Jade, so credit to her as well.

He kind of misses his buzzcut.Running his hand over the short but oh so soft hair, nothing to pull on or get his fingers tangled in.He’d originally shaved it when he was twelve, woken up standing in the kitchen at one in the morning.He hadn’t known what to tell his dad about it.Usually Stiles’ distress resulted in scratches down his arms, around his neck, and fist fulls of his hair tugged in any direction until his head was dully aching.

He kept it short in the hospital.On his second release back home he started growing it again.This was his third, and so far it was lasting longer than either of the other two.It’s progress.It was also only a matter of time before he went back, he knows, and he thinks his father does too but no one mentions that out loud.

He remembers when Scott asked him about the hair.First when it was a brand new cut, then when he first got back to school and saw it getting longer.

It isn’t really about the hair though.

Stiles had been homeschooled with a tutor during his year off school, whenever he was actually home.He didn’t see Scott for most of it.Whether that was Scott’s doing or either of their parents he didn’t know and he didn’t want to.Asking about the hair was asking how he was, because between shaving it all off and being hospitalized Stiles had never been worse.From twelve to fifteen he went from occasionally sleep walking and having secret panic attacks at school to running out of the building entirely, barricading his bedroom and avoiding sleep altogether.

It was gradual.After all, three years was a long time for things to happen.So much of it blurred together when he looked back though.

So Scott asks him if he’s growing his hair back out and Stiles gives him a nod and a smile and appreciates what was left.He appreciates the subtly.The closest he’s come to it with anyone else was when he was paired with Greenberg in biology the first week of his return.

Greenberg was okay.He didn’t laugh when people called Stiles crazy, and so Stiles didn’t laugh when people made fun of him either.

He’d told Stiles he had a cousin that had to go to a mental hospital.She lived out of state, so it wasn’t like Stiles might know her.He thinks it was just an awkward attempt at saying he didn’t judge him for having been there, which was appreciated as well, but she had gone because she too had tried to kill herself, only after a history of behavioral issues built up with alcohol and partying by the time she was sixteen and it all bundled into a diagnosis Greenberg didn’t remember the name of.He sort of rambled about it.She was nice to him the last he recalls but they haven’t seen each other since he was eight and she hadn’t had a melt down or whatever yet.Greenberg didn’t keep in touch with his more distant relatives, and Stiles doesn’t actually know a thing about his parents if he thinks about it.

None of it really mattered, because while Stiles caught the information and stored it away absently, he hadn’t really cared beyond the suicide mention.It wasn’t actually something they had in common.He hadn’t tried to kill himself. No one really believes that though, except for maybe his father, but probably not even him.The scars speak volumes.His therapist thinks he wanted to die subconsciously and needed to accept that he felt that way in order to move on from it.

He could be right, but Stiles didn’t really buy it.Sometimes it isn’t that deep, sometimes things just happen, sometimes people just do things without that kind of foresight.

In theory it’s an almost refreshing thought, because his mind is always racing these days about mundane things he wished he didn’t get hung up on.

[...]

He didn’t flock to anyone he used to know, even a few weeks into the new school year.He doesn’t moon over Lydia, never mind try to speak to her.He doesn’t look Jackson in eyes much.He doesn’t reach back out to Heather.He doesn’t even try to sit with Scott.

He partners with Greenberg if he has to choose, because he won’t force conversation and they can practically disappear in the back.He still raises his hand if he thinks of something to add or question, he still draws on his hand when he gets bored, and he opens any notes passed his way.Things are normal enough, if a bit off kilter and quiet.

He wants to say that he doesn’t mind, but even Stiles can admit that it was a load of horse shit.

[...]

Being alone isn’t so bad outside of school though.

Beacon Hills was home.It was boring but it was quaint.Everyone on his street knew him and his dad and he grew up going to potlucks with just about all of them.Most of the deputies at the station had been there for years as well, some having looked over him doing his homework when he was younger and others only seeing the calm before the storm, but they have all been there.He was still classified mostly as the rambunctious child no one could get a handle on, the kid who almost set his neighbor’s car on fire once and glued a few classmates to their chairs.He was still the sheriff’s son who spent time in the mental hospital.That all just came with the territory.

He can’t drive yet.He was more heavily medicated and in and out of home when he was fifteen, and now at sixteen they were still feeling things out before letting it even be much of a discussion.His mom’s old Jeep sits in the garage, declared as his but unused for the time being.

Stiles rides his bike around most days, and skateboards if he has time to spare.The bike can handle riding off road pretty well for how old it actually is.He and Scott used to both go through trees and back roads and even alleys.There wasn’t any point.They didn’t get up to trouble when they went out like that.It was peaceful.Quiet.A chance to talk or not talk for hours and they valued such a time even as children but especially as they got older.They’d walk or ride bikes for hours and hiked to a spot in some woods that let them overlook the entire town.

It’s a Friday afternoon, just after school has let out that Stiles thinks of going there again.It’s not the same by himself, but he’d like to go anyway.

It’s just a few minutes from the entrance into the trees he’s looking for that he stops on the side of the road.

There’s someone stood on the line, staring out at nothing as if afraid to step out of the shade of the wildlife around them.They’re far enough away Stiles can’t make out a face.The skin looked tan but dull and blotchy.The longer he stares the more he thinks he sees; bare feet covered in what must be mud or dirt, hands even darker for some reason, and similar blotches on the shirt that practically hangs off their frame.

It’s eerily still, like the wind won’t move so much as a single hair on their head and he can’t wrap his mind around how he comes to that conclusion.

There’s a car engine rumbling in the background, on the right side of the road getting closer and closer but this one doesn’t pass.Stiles doesn’t look at it.He only holds the bike’s handlebars tighter in his grip, a dread creeping up his shoulders as he imagines his demise in the back of someone’s van and the dirty stranger in the trees climbing in after him to do it—

“Stiles?”


	2. Chapter 2

One of the worst things, in his opinion, about the rift that formed between him and Scott was that it wasn’t only his friends that had been family to him but that boy’s family as well. Melissa McCall was a mother figure before he lost his own. Truth be told she might know more about his condition than Scott did, given where she worked. She had been the one to say that he needed a psychological evaluation. She had spoken to him that night he was brought in on a supposed suicide attempt. Even before that she seems to pick up on things that no one else did.

As Stiles’ father grew absent, he had learned to brush everything under the rug, how to keep his best friend from asking questions or noticing that he was dodging them. And as his mental state grew worse and worse, Melissa knew how to accommodate him in ways that no one else did. She paid attention from the beginning, even as a busy single parent working just as often if not more than the sheriff. No matter how busy or tired she was she always try to pay attention to both of the boys. Much like Noah was trying to do now, to his credit. All of that being said, he can’t help but still feel a bit uncomfortable being spotted by her on the side of the road.

He’s reluctant to look away from the figure in the distance but eventually he has to. Uncertain and pale in the face he looks over at the car with the window rolled down and sees that Melissa was frowning, brows furrowed in concern. “Uh- yeah?”

“Are you okay?”She asks.

Stiles nods his head in quick, jerky motions. He is aware of how he might look, stood there was no signs of moving, his attention fixed the way it was at his back is stiff as a board.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”He insists, though he doesn’t really believe himself, never mind expect her to. He looks ahead again, back where the figure was and finds nothing but empty space and trees next to the road.

Blinking, he recounts the day’s breakfast and how many pills he took; there was something for his adhd, an anti-psychotic, anti-anxiety, and a mild anti-depressant. He’d have three in the morning and another three closer to the evening.  Always with food and water.  Staying hydrated is important when he’s clear headed because he ignores basic needs when he gets bad.  Food was similar but he was stricter with it.  Taking his medication on an empty stomach always ended badly.

”Stiles, do you need me to drive you home?”  She sounds so concerned, and he hasn’t spoken to her in almost a year. Even longer since the last time he saw Scott.

”Um...” Surely though, he was fine.  He took his doses, ate eggs and toast with them.  But there was always a chance, Stiles reminds himself.  He usually didn’t have to, he just knew it.  “Can you?”

When the teen looks back to her again, there’s a gentle smile on her face and she nods her head.  “Of course.”

[...]

He doesn't enjoy therapy.  Really, even when someone gets all they want out of it, he doesn't imagine they actually enjoy the sessions that much.  It was emotional and frustrating and if you don't have the right therapist you were essentially screwed.  Good luck going office to office in search of someone you feel more comfortable venting to.  Hope that you're lucky enough that either they happen to take insurance or that you're able to afford them out of pocket.

The Stilinski's couldn't.  They were in debt already with the hospital visit and following institutionalization, not to mention the tutor, regular bills.  Their options for Stiles were extremely limited, especially living in a smaller area.

He doesn't hate his therapist though.  The guy had a sense of humor, he didn't care if Stiles was vulgar or crude or couldn't sit still. He was alright.  Stiles just didn't feel much relief talking to someone who was tracking his mental progress.  Who, in the end, wouldn't really care about his well being if it came down to it.  For some that was a benefit; that professionals weren't invested in you, don't have enough knowledge to go on about how _'it wasn't like this when you were five'_.  It just wasn't like that for him.

At least the chair reclines.  That was Nice.

"How's school been? You just got back, right?"

Stiles nods.  "Yeah.. Yeah, it's alright."

"Did you talk to Scott yet?"

"No- I mean, sort of.  He asked how things were... We like, nod at each other sometimes.  That's about it."

"It must be weird after not seeing each other for so long.  Think you might reach out more?"

"I dunno.  He has a couple new friends now, I think.  He's on the lacrosse team- benched mostly cause y'know, asthma, but still there.  He's got his own stuff going on."

"That doesn't mean you can't be there too."

He shrugs and turns in his chair, sitting sideways with his legs hanging over the arm.  "Talked with _Greenberg_ once.  And no, he wasn't a friend, we've just always been to school together."

"Oh yeah? How'd that go?"

"He told me about his cousin with behavior issues and how she tried to kill herself."  He spares a glance to see the mildly surprised look on the man's face before continuing.  "He's awkward.  I think he was trying to make me feel better about being in a loony bin."

"And did it..?"

"Make me feel better? No.  No it was just fucking weird... We've _never_ spoken, the most we have in common is that neither of us ever had any friends - besides Scott for me - and we've always been fucking laughing stocks."

"Why do you think he spoke up now?"

"We were partnered for bio.  He probably felt weird."

"And why do you say that?"

"Everyone feels weird around me now.  If they're not judging they're just weird, like I'm going to infect them or something."

"Ah, gotcha... So I guess school hasn't been very fun?"

"Is it ever?  It's fine though, I kind of expected worse.  It's just dumb names."

[...]

Stiles has never been one to leave well enough alone.  When he needed answers, he would get them one way or another.  Even if this time it might mean he was going crazy.

He goes back to the woods late on a Saturday morning.  Gravel on the side of the road crackling under his bike tires.  The sun beats down on him, but even at a stand-still there was a cold wind blowing steadily and keeping him cool.

The spot he needs, he knows by heart.  It takes nothing but time to get there again, but this time, there's nothing stopping him.  Stiles rides up to the small, unofficial entrance in the trees with nothing but the sounds of nature and his own breathing surrounding him.

He dismounts the bike, laying it on it’s side before moving forwards.  He's not entirely sure what he was expecting, but whatever it may be, he doesn't find it.  No foot prints, no tracks.  Not even sign of another bike or hikers- the dirt is smooth aside from twigs and rocks.  Untouched.

 

Stiles rides his bike back into town with his bottom lip caught between his teeth the whole way.  Held, pinched, nibbled on until half of it was raw and red and tender.  It’s a bad habit, not exclusive to stress.  Stiles chews on anything he can get his hands on when he’s focused, even if that sometimes isn’t anything besides his own skin or nails.

In this case it was likely both things. His nerves were on edge and he spends the whole way racking his brain for some logical explanation that doesn’t involve him ending up back in the hospital.  He’s had delusions, he knows, even auditory hallucinations but he’s never seen people that weren’t there.

It feels more likely then, that there really was some stranger standing around in dirty clothes on the side of the road. At the same time of course, if there was such a person why wouldn’t the nurse who picked him up notice or ask questions?  Why didn’t she seem to see them? Maybe she was just too focused on Stiles, knowing what she knows. It only seems to take a moment for the stranger disappear. That didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. Maybe they were just quick.  If that is the case though, and it really is just a person that was stranded there, what happened to them?

He's got a sore spot of his lip between his teeth again when leaning his bike against the front of the diner, trusting as usual that no one would take it.  So far no one has ever tried.  Stiles makes it two feet in the door before his absent mind has him stepping right into someone's chest- not with too much force, but enough that his teeth dig in too deep and both parties wobble backwards a step.

"Shit-“

”I’m sorry-“

They both try at once and then stop.  Stiles looks up at the other’s face and finds his brow furrowing slightly.

Greenberg, of course.

”You’re— bleeding! Are you okay?” Genuine concern. Interesting.

”I- yeah, yeah I was biting it when I came it, it’s not you.”

He doesn’t have time to think about that coincidence.  There was a mysterious possible-hallucination or injured person on the loose.  His tongue finds the little cut in his lip as he steps around Greenberg without another word.

At a booth in the corner he orders his favorite; a patty melt with curly fries but water instead of a coke, because he definitely doesn’t need the added sugar right now. The waitress, much like the deputies down at the station, has known Stiles for years now and barely has to ask.

Food doesn’t help him think, nor does it offer any kind of comfort, but he needs to eat regular meals. While he sits there though, leg bouncing and mouth thankfully occupied to protect his stinging lip from further abuse, Stiles starts on a plan to sort this all out.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s lighter than he expected at this time of night.The forest floor is painted black, tall trees blocking the moonlight from reaching so low.Lifting his gaze from the twigs and rocks he steps on though, Stiles can see just fine.

There’s a figure in the distance.He sees them fine too, but they’re too far away.

He can’t stop staring either.

Shuffling, stumbling, running forward.His gaze keeps locked on the stranger.

It should be colder than this.He can’t even feel the air as he moves forward.

But he feels his lungs working so hard, struggling to fill and function.

He feels his body tending as he tries to run.

His eyes squint.They’re still so far away.

“Hey-“ he coughs.It shouldn’t be this hard.“Hey!”

Another heave.

“Hey!”

He falls.

[...]

“How’d you sleep?”

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen.His dad is putting bread in the toaster for them both as Stiles passes him, opening up a cabinet to grab himself a coffee mug.

“Alright.You?”

“Not bad.”

It’s early for Stiles to be up.They usually don’t get mornings together because of the twelve hour shifts his dad works; day shift being six in the morning to six and the evening, and night shift being the opposite.Whichever he had meant he would usually be gone before Stiles came downstairs or sleeping after just getting home.

Sleep wasn’t always kind to Stiles.Since his medication started balancing out the way it was supposed to, it has been considerably better.There were still nights though that it evades him, or mornings like this one where he just can’t stay down.Noah won’t ask until the third day in a row, trying not to micromanage and being used to the ups and downs by now as much as he could be.

”Any plans for the day?”  Stiles shrugs, glancing over at the toaster just before it springs.  His dad squints, fond, and goes to pull butter out of the fridge while his son gets his caffeine fix.

"Not really.  School, homework.  Might go for a ride around after.”

”How’s school going, anyway?”

”It’s school, dad.”

”You know what I mean.”

Another shrug, sipping his coffee and holding out a hand for his piece of toast. “Could be worse.  No one’s stuffed me in a locket yet.”

It was always the same questions.  At home, in therapy.  How was school?  Have you spoken to old friends? Made any new ones? Sleeping okay? How are things at home? How did the session go?

It gets old quick.

[...]

School truly isn’t anything to write home about.  He does well in his classes.  Worked hard to make sure he could and it holds up.  Mr. Harris is still annoyed by him any time he opens his mouth, but Stiles doesn’t mind it coming from him like he used to.  Only two teachers in the whole building treated him the same as they used to; Harris and Finstock.  Even if they weren’t his biggest fans, Stiles appreciates the normalcy of any interactions he has with them.

All staff had to be informed about special circumstance of a student, which was nice in theory and in the case something happened they didn’t know how to handle, but it also came with a judgement and a caution that other students didn’t have to deal with.  Only Stiles could slip up, be snapped at, and then watch the teacher bite their tongue in question of what they could or couldn’t do when they realized who they were dealing with.  Sometimes he thinks they want to be harder on him, others it’s pure pity.  Either way is tiring.

In fairness, it does seem to get better as time goes on but for now at least the point remained.Small towns always had talk, and rarely to your face.The teachers probably had just as much gossip as the students did.Hopefully in another month it would all feel more normal though.Not that Stiles would hold his breath.

Coach solidifies his status in gym class, frowning at the boy getting hit in the stomach by a rubber ball yet again and calling out, “Come on, Stilinski! Weren't you locked up for being nuts?  Where's that energy!?"

He was far too passionate for a game of dodgeball.

Stiles tries to fake the enthusiasm.  One of the flaws of being medicated was how tired it could all make him feel.  As with most things some days were better than others.  Overall, he was muted compared to what he once was.  A small price to pay for being sane.  Still, he tries to pretend and hopes for the days it takes less work, feels more real.  Dodgeball was not going to set this up to be one of those days.

At least he wasn't the only one getting railed on.

Greenberg wasn't exactly a small guy.  While Stiles was a long limbed, lean boy that could still count his ribs if he just raises his arms overhead or bent to the side, Greenberg was probably twice his size.  At least six foot tall, broad shouldered, and dense with muscle.  He was no body builder, not as _shredded_ as some of the other lacrosse players in town, but he looked like the athlete he was.  Despite the contrast between them, he was losing just as badly at this game as Stiles and his fragile bones.

After the hit to the stomach Stiles begins making his way to the sidelines.  His gaze is narrow, shooting a look first at Jackson Whittemore for the blow, then to Greenberg trying and failing to send a returning shot.

The floor greets him next.  The side of his face burns where he was struck again.  Five feet away another red rubber ball continues to bounce away.  Finstock gripes at the offender while Stiles metaphorically dusts himself off.

The irritation isn’t special.  He was dealing with his peers, after all.  Recently it’s felt nearly constant in the school building.  Someone doing something, saying something, bothering him for no real reason.  That wasn’t really special either; kids were mean and it began young.  If it wasn’t Stiles it would be someone else.  He wasn’t special.  But he could still be bitter.  And he could imagine how he’d fight back if the option was more valid.  Being violent, impulsive, rash, those were the sort of things that had him re-evaluated, and so those were the things he couldn’t afford to be.  So he glares and walks away and washes his frustration away in the shower.

The day continues on.

Stiles goes by the woods again after school.  This time he doesn't stop.  Riding his bike around town, he keeps his eyes peeled.He hasn’t seen the barefoot woman again; a fact both reassuring and confusing in his position.  The sun ends up pleasantly warm on his back for once.  After some time he stops for a breather and an iced coffee.  Caffeine wasn't recommended given his tendency to be hyper-active in the past, though Stiles justifies it with how tired he always seemed to be since his initial diagnosis.  It wasn't new, anyway, and even his father frequently looked the other way.  It wasn't as if he was drinking alcohol.

While he breaks at one of the outdoor tables, he spots a familiar figure across the street.  At this point he was beginning to wish it was the barefoot woman instead of his classmate, because Stiles never noticed the boy before but now he was turning up everywhere.  It did nothing for his raised nerves.

_Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern._

Stiles does not like Greenberg.

He only drinks half his coffee before getting back on his bike to continue on his way.

[...]

Days pass similarly, over and over again.

School is uneventful.  His dad is awfully busy with work, as always, trying to keep up with the ever growing debt in medical bills and treatment for his son's mental condition.  Therapy, medication.  The tutor when he had one, the institution.  They were lucky with Claudia that her condition was partially covered.  Not completely, not for a small county's deputy as he'd been at the time, but enough they weren't completely in the hole because of it.  They could have gotten out, anyway, especially as he got his promotion.

And then Stiles turned out to be a _head-case_.

So his dad is busy, as usual.  Stiles does his homework quickly, eats three meals a day, takes his medication, tries to keep his head down and his mouth shut around his peers.  He doesn’t see the woman.  Sometimes while he’s wandering around town, he sees his dad across the street somewhere.  Stiles waves if their eyes meet, but he knows to stay away.  More often he sees Greenberg.  At the bookstore, a coffee shop, his favorite diner.  It’s an undeniable pattern but given that the other rarely notices him back and they did live in the same town, he tries not to let it work him up.

Like this the week flies by, the weekend comes and goes even slower and the next week passes the same.

Beacon Hills is as boring as ever.

 

And then rather suddenly, it’s not.

 

Saturday morning, Stiles goes out to the woods, to the small path he wanted to go to when he saw the strange woman originally.  Given how long has passed without another sighting, he remembers the goal he’d had of looking over the town and sets about it again after breakfast with his father.

It’s familiar until it isn’t.

Stiles remembers as clear as day all of the times he and Scott would make this hike.  Laughing about how their parents couldn’t get them to take up regular activities and yet here they were, sweating in the summer heat for the sake of it.  He remembers the day Scott announced his interest in playing lacrosse despite everyone’s protests, how it wasn’t like soccer in the back yard with Stiles, how risky it could be for his health.  He remembers giving his friend the same reminders before deciding that if one did it, the other would to.  At least that way, he would be right there to watch his friend’s back and make sure he had an inhaler at the ready.

Somewhere along the path though, the memories fade.  It winds in a different direction than he thought it did.

He still feels safe until he doesn’t.

The air feels thicker than it did when he started.  The sun shines somehow dull through the trees.  Sticks break and leaves crunch around him.  To the left, then the right, far in front of him, then behind.  Stiles continues on, shaking his head at himself as dread begins to coil inside of him.

The walk becomes a march.  A determined hike instead of a stroll.  It shouldn’t be so hot yet, but sweat begins beading along his forehead and making his armpits stick.

It isn’t a woman in the woods.

It looks like his father, until it doesn’t.

”Dad?” He calls out uncertainly, eyes trained on the man’s back where he stand immobile up ahead.  “Dad, what are you...”

It turns around slowly, shadows seeming to warp his face with heavy contrast and concave features.  Eyes dark and grey.  The longer the boy watches, the deeper it all becomes.

Stiles runs as fast as his legs can carry him.  Trees fly by at a dizzying rate.  His heart races and pounds, leaves and little branches catch his clothes and whip across his face, rocks and dirt flying when he has to shuffle down a steeper path.

Goes and goes and goes until he's back on his bike and flying down the street.


	4. Chapter 4

"A  _ **sloth**_  could run faster than you, pick it  _ **up**_ Stilinski!"

Perhaps if he channeled last weekend’s panic that wouldn’t be a problem.  Just thinking of those woods set him off though.

It was twisted and horrific and _unreal_.  Stiles hid in his room for the majority of the day.  Thinking, waiting, debating.  He double checked all of his medicine bottles in case he somehow forgot one at breakfast and the suddenly off combination of drugs caused a bad reaction- but he was right in track numbers wise, and that shouldn’t be how it worked anyway.  His father was perfectly normal, sat at the table reviewing a report from the night before.  Nothing else came for him.  No images, no voices, no eyes on his back or shadows moving by the window-

By all accounts but that one, Stiles was perfectly fine.

Being fine didn’t explain what he saw in the woods though.  Why it looked like his dad.  Why it came to him.

He almost doesn’t want to know what it was anymore.

 

Saturday came and went.  Stiles paced and went through his breathing exercises off and on throughout the day but in the end he was fine.  Everything was.

Sunday passed not much better, but by Monday there was no hiding.  As far as he could tell there was no reason anymore to take a mental health day, and even if there was, being cooped up in his room probably wouldn’t have helped.

If he’s a little jumpier at school, it didn’t really matter.  People might laugh but it wasn’t vastly different from usual anyway.  Stiles was still a joke.  People were still rude.  He still keeps his comebacks locked up tight behind his lips and his head down.  It didn’t matter.  Nor did it matter that he was a bit slower in gym than usual.  He was fine.  His hands feel numb and his stomach was rolling but he barely worked out, what did he expect?

Only coach cared, and he wasn’t genuine in it, this was simply his teaching style.

” _Stilinski_!”

It was normal.  He was just anxious.

Shaking and dizzy and so nauseous he can’t even think of what his legs were doing—

It’s dismissible, even if only to Stiles himself, until he comes face to face with the dirt.

Black dots swarm his vision.  Cheek, palms, and knees stinging from the impact, but even that has to be dismissed for the time being.

There were more shouts around him, scrapes of shoes on the compact earth, but it was all filtered and distant.  Second place to the burning in his stomach as his blatant mistakes catch up with him with a great big ‘ _I told you so_ ’.

Stomach acid and half-digested pills drip and sputter past his lips, much to the horror of his classmates.

”Jesus, Stilinski!” Finstock groans, voice closer now, though whether that was actual distance or the roaring in his ears was yet to be determined.  His skull was pounding too by this point.

The next thing he knows, there were big yet gentle hands on him, guiding him to sit back and then helping him to his feet.  Reluctant as he is to open his eyes, Stiles wasn't being hauled around blindly.

It feels like a cruel irony to realize coach must have ordered Greenberg to help him out.

Stiles keeps his eyes on the ground after that.  Shuffling along with his arms hugging his middle, he doesn't need to see the other looks being sent his way.  He doesn't even want to look at Greenberg.  He doesn't need to to know that his classmate had no idea what to do with him anyway; judging by the silence and the awkward presence of his hand still on Stiles' back.

They continue on like that all the way to the nurse's office before either dare speak.

The nurse wasn't bad, though like any average high school staff, she wasn't particularly invested in her job.  She had the most information on Stiles' condition though, which meant she should be the most well equipped to handle the situation- not that Stiles didn't already know where he went wrong.

"What happened?"  She asks with eyes locked onto the taller boy rather than the sick one.

"I-I don't know, he just got sick during gym and..."

"I didn't eat."  Stiles cuts in, pausing to swallow and clear his throat before continuing.  "I forgot breakfast, and my morning meds, so I took them at lunch, but I didn't really eat then either.  And gym comes after."

He can feel the eyes on him.  His peer's confusion radiates off him.  For some reason that bothers him more than the scrutiny in the nurse’s eyes he can actually see.

The smaller boy shrugs away from the other’s hold and moves towards the cot by the wall.

“You know why’s that’s dangerous, don’t you?”  The woman asks with a sigh.

”Not my first rodeo, no.”

”Alright.  I’ll try to get a hold of your dad.  You,” she looks to Greenberg.  “Stay with him.”

The taller boy nods, while the other immediately shakes his head.

”He’s at work.”

”I’m sending you home, and someone needs to keep an eye on you.  And your dad needs to know what’s happened here anyway.”

”I’ll tell him tonight-“

”And I’m not letting you go home alone.”

”I don’t have a car anyway, come on! I can walk-“

”I can drive him.”

Blinking, Stiles turns his attention back to his peer who fidgets under his gaze.

”I have a car.  I can take him and wait for his dad.”

Stiles leans back with a groan.

[...]

Greenberg talks when he’s nervous.  As they approach his car he rambles on about how it was his fixer-upper, but it’s what he could afford on his own, and he loved it, but he knows it looks ridiculous. It does, but Stiles understands the sentiment.  He felt the same about his Jeep locked away in the garage, but he doesn't share that.

In fact he doesn't say much at all for once, choosing instead to ride out his headache in silence while his classmate squirms.  If he were honest, there wasn't really much reason to be mad.  Greenberg's presence around town wasn't legitimately causing trouble.  They lived in the same area.  Went to the same school.  It was really just a wonder that Stiles never noticed him before.  It wasn't as if Greenberg was ever looking his way or interfering- they both went about their business, sometimes crossing paths, sometimes not.

They were only here now because Stiles let his fears get to him.  Let the panic set in and his mind begin to scatter and he forgot his most basic routine, knowing the consequences, and pushed himself.  Finstock probably told Greenberg to help him.  And it was, in retrospect, rather kind of him to offer to drive Stiles home, regardless of whether or not he actually intends on staying.

Stiles really should offer more than direction on where to turn as they go.

He plans on doing as much.  He does, but right when he opens his mouth to apologize, he also spots a figure on the side of the road.

”Do you see that?”

”Uh..”

All alone, it shuffles along so slowly they’d pass it in a matter of seconds in Greenberg’s car.

”Pull over!”

They we’re gaining on it so quickly-

”What?”

”Pull over! Pull over pull over pull over-“

He chants, the words tumbling past his lips like his earlier vomit.  His heart races again, his already rolling stomach tightens into a knot, Stiles almost thinks he would actually puke for a second time when the car slows enough for him to jump out, ignoring his peer’s calls behind him.

 

Once again it looks familiar and not.  It’s his father, except it isn’t.  It still doesn’t have shoes.  Nor does it have his badge, Stiles realizes in a fleeting moment of near-calm before his actions catch up to him.

All it takes is a moment, their eyes locked, and then it shifts.  Hair grows thin and long, eyes sinking back in it’s skull, its jaw dropping open-

Stiles takes a single step back and makes contact.

”What- What the hell—“

Greenberg acts as a wall behind him to lean on, sputtering through his own horror while the being before them twitches and bends inhumanely.

And then it steps forward, closer, big eyes locked on Stiles’ and finally he can breathe; the air rushes past his lips like he’d been sucker punched, his arms flail and legs tremble as he moves them.  He turns away from the monster and nearly tackles Greenberg to make him do the same.  In seconds the pair were scrambling back to the car, tumbling inside and the driver’s foot was on the gas before Stiles had his door fully closed.

[...]

_”Did you hear that?” He asks, brow furrowed and eyes questioning as he turns to look at his friend._

_”No..?” Scott replies.  “Hear what?”_

_”Oh.  I thought I heard someone outside...”_

_”I thought your dad wasn’t back for like three hours.”_

_”Yeah, that’s why it confused me, dude.”_

_”Huh.”_

[...]

He was reeling.  It was a monster.  A demon.  A nightmare in the day.  He was horrified, but one thing keeps him from panicking right there; to his left, in the driver seat was Johnny Greenberg, wide-eyed and clammy in his own shock.

It wasn’t in his head.

”What the fuck was that?”  He wished he had an answer to give beyond shrugging when the other wasn’t even looking at him.  “Stiles, what was that?!”

”I don’t know! Dude, I don’t know.”

”You told me to pull over for it!”

”I don’t know what it was, that’s why I wanted to stop!”

”What-“

”I saw it before! Just like that, the fucking thing looked like my dad and when I started talking to it it got all gross and twisted and I ran but it keeps showing up!”

”Holy shit!  Fuck, man!”

”I know! Shut up already!”

“Hey- I’ve never seen that kind of crap before!”

”And it’s normal for me?!”

Greenberg’s mouth opens again, seemingly ready to keep running down the track they were on in a heartbeat before he suddenly catches himself.

”You think it is. Don’t you?”

”No! No, Stiles,” their positions are somewhat reversed now; Stiles turning his attention out the front windshield while Greenberg alternates between watching the road and trying to read his face.  “That’s not what I meant, I swear!”

”I’m not fucking crazy Greenberg, I didn’t hallucinate demons on the side of the road!”

”I know! Or- or I don’t really, I don’t know what happened before I just-“

”I get it! Everybody has a guess, it’s fine.”

”Well- clearly it’s not.”

”Just _drop it_.”

Surprisingly, he does.

They sit in silence like that outside of Stiles’ direction to send them back towards his house.

As the adrenaline fades his body’s distress comes back in full.  Nausea and cramping, his head pounding and upset insides simultaneously reminding him that he still needed to eat.  He needed to take his medication again.

 

“I didn’t try to kill myself.”  He says about a block away from his house.  The following moment of silence draws his lower lip between his teeth to be bit at for another few seconds.  “You told me about your cousin a bit ago. Who tried to kill herself.  And I know you were trying to make me not feel awkward or something? But that’s not why I did it.”  None of them.  Not the little cuts still littering his upper arms and decorating his hips, nor the long lines dragged up both forearms.  “It made me feel better sometimes. And I wanted it to stop. I wasn’t thinking about death.”

”I... I’m so sorry, Stiles.  I didn’t mean it like that, I really didn’t.”

”That one’s me, on the left there.”

 

More silence.  They pull up in the driveway and sit there for a minute more.  Stiles gets out and stands between the car itself and the open door.

”Come on.”

”Um-“

”In.  Come in.  We need to talk about that thing.”

”Oh. Uh... Okay.”


	5. Chapter 5

"So..."

They've been in the house silently for five minutes- nearly, at least, as Stiles rushes up and down the stairs and digs in cabinets and drawers by himself with Greenberg hovering awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen.  After all but bursting in he went about his business straight away without a word to his guest.  Truth be told Stiles didn't know where to begin with Greenberg, but he had other things to get out of the way first; collecting each pill he had to take, making a note of the incident to keep track of his numbers without mistake later, getting a glass of water and searching for something to eat alongside them to avoid a repeat.

Once he's throwing leftover mac-and-cheese in the microwave, Stiles thinks that maybe he shouldn't have invited Greenberg in at all.  Let him deal with it however he feels like.  Let him think whatever he's going to think.  Logically speaking there wasn't necessarily a pattern or connection between him and the ghoul.  Surely this all could be ignored. Dismissed.  Greenberg would probably convince himself it was all a dream or a delusion and never see the thing again.

Except the logic didn't matter.

Logically that thing shouldn't even exist, no matter what it was.

Logically it shouldn't do what it did.

But it was there, it morphed grotesquely, and now there was a second witness to that fact.  And Stiles only started to really notice Greenberg after his first sighting of it, which felt like more than enough reason to bring him in.  He can't help it.

"That's not the first time I've seen it."  Stiles begins, brushing past the other's fruitless attempt at getting his attention a moment ago.  "The first was a few weeks ago, I thought it was a woman.  Just standing by the side of the road.  Didn't move.  Looked like shit.  No shoes... I kept looking for her but I didn't see her again- or so I thought.  The next time I knew it was something else, I was in the woods, and it looked like my dad.  It did that shifting thing like today and I made a run for it... And now it's done it again and I think- I think I saw it a lot more than that, actually.  If it's been disguising itself as him...I kept going around town and seeing him not doing anything in particular and we'd make eye contact but he wouldn't even wave- which isn't super out of the ordinary y'know, when he's busy he's not going to and standing around happens on a twelve hour shift, cops get bored...But it's too weird.  And usually he tries to make small talk after I go out, now that I think about it..."

The microwave has already gone off but Stiles doesn't turnt to get his plate of noodles until he's finished his explanation.  It was all too bizarre.

"So...A monster is just...Wearing your dad's face around town?  Surely more people would have noticed the sheriff walking around like a zombie in the middle of the day."

Stiles bites his lip uncertainly but nods.  It was a fair point.  "I'll look into that... See if anybody's been asking about it."

"How are you going to do that? Just interview everyone in town?"

He scoffs in response, shoving a spoonful of noodles in his mouth before replying.  "Sheriff’s kid.  I used to do all my homework in that office when my mom was sick and have barbecues with like every employee there.  I can find out.”

There’s another pause as Stiles gets another bite, gaze flickering up to the boy across from him.  Despite his bigger frame, Greenberg has a way of looking like he could blend into the wall.  Thinking on it, he was fairly certain it was always that way.  A part of why no one noticed the guy until he did something dumb.  Stiles wonders if he has any friends there in the background with him, because he realizes he never noticed that either, but he imagines if he did it wouldn’t be ‘ _god dammit Greenberg_ ’ it would be ‘ _Greenberg and-_ '

With Finstock’s loud mouth there would be no missing it.

"Are you gonna...Tell your dad, or...?"  He stills.

His dad's concerns would be the same as Stiles'.  He'd assume Greenberg was playing along, probably with ill intent.  He'd have a long sit down his shrink.  Said shrink would have no reason to believe what he says, not in this case.  "No.  No one's going to believe this."  He breathes in.  "Looks like it's just you and me, man."

"Right- yeah, of course..."  He doesn't look much better than Stiles feels.  Confused and shaken and unsure- it hadn't fully registered to him in his rush to start sorting everything out.  He doesn't know what to do with it.

[...]

_“Stiles?”_

_“Shh!”_

_“Stiles, what-“_

_“Shut up!” He snaps in a stage-whisper, just before Scott spots him where he’s hidden behind sports gear in the locker room._

_“Hey, man...”  Scott was wise enough to lower his voice, but he doesn't know--  
_

_Stiles reaches out to pull him down into the hiding spot._ _“Shh!  Someone's here, okay? I-I don't know what they want but they're- we have to hide."_

_"What?  Are you serious- Stiles we have to call for help!"  
_

_"No! No if dad comes they'll get him-"_

_"If we don't they'll get us!"_

_"It's my dad, Scott!  Please, please just hide with me, please, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna lose him, I-"_

_"Shit! Okay, okay..."_

[...]

Where to start beyond poking around the station was truly a mystery.  Bookstores, the library, the internet- they’d be going in blind no matter what.  Real versus fiction were entirely blurred in a case like this.  Whatever the creature was, it could have a hundreds of different theories about it for all he knew, if he ever found out what it was called to begin with; it wasn't like searching for the history of vampires in lore.  All they had to go off of was that it seemed to be wordless, it's natural form seemed to be the barefoot woman, and it shapeshifted into the local sheriff.  It didn't sound like anything Stiles had ever heard of before.

Stiles tells Greenberg to leave after he’s finished eating, deciding he couldn’t effectively split his attention between the search and Greenberg both.  The other teen could sort out how he felt about it all on his own time, and Stiles will continue to keep an eye on him and his pattern as they proceed.  In the meantime he had to start somewhere.

‘Shapeshifter steals faces’ yields tv show wiki pages and top ten lists that are only mildly more helpful.  Kitsune are interesting enough, as are the Púca, but their profiles wildly differ from his experience.  ‘Mythology creature that disguises itself as someone important’ tells him the basics about ‘The greatest and craziest monsters in Greek mythology’ and ‘14 terrifying Japanese monsters, myths, and spirits’ but none of them are right.

‘What are shadow creatures?’ One headline reads, revealing a list of people who have reported seeing such a thing, though it sounds as if every account varies in what exactly they saw.

‘Ifrit’ are a type jinn, and also completely wrong.

In the history of demons in culture, he learns the earliest mentions were in ancient Egypt, Arabia, Mesopotamia and Assyria.That, and the fact his current condition would undoubtedly get him killed via exorcism or something of the like in another time when many illnesses - mental or otherwise - were considered signs of demonic possession.

He reads through ‘Art and myth of the Ancient Maya’ and ‘The Celtic roots of Halloween’ with no less disappointment.

He changes his wording, reads over page after page.From lists to formal Wikipedia’s to websites personally managed by someone of specific culture to enlighten others.He reads about creatures from Japanese culture, Egyptian, Native American, Greek.He even reads about vampires, mermaids, and lycanthropes on the off chance his creature was simply trying to terrify him by acting odd on purpose.

Time ticks on and his eyes grow tired staring at the screen.Frustration simmers continuously under the surface, feet tapping rapidly, fingers taking over when he tries to be still.The information is interesting, and Stiles ends up with a blank notebook filling with the information he gathers, organized by which culture each myth came from and given highlights on the corners to indicate which kill people, which shape shift, and which are supposedly peaceful.It piles as the clock hands circle over and over again- until his dad is quietly pushing his bedroom door open and clearing his throat.

The noise sends the boy’s body jerking forward with a flailing of his arms, ready to cover his head while he sputters.The sheriff doesn’t hide his amusement when Stiles looks over at him, but it doesn’t keep the main point at bay either.

“What are you doing up, Stiles?”

As he rights himself, leaning back in his seat the teen rubs at dry eyes.“It’s not that late- you just got back?”

“Yeah, I did, but I also stayed late.It’s half past midnight, kiddo.”

Of course.Stiles pats his pockets and scans over the desk before finally spotting his phone on the bed.There were probably a handful of messages if his dad worked late, checking in, explaining. _Whoops_.

“Uhh- right, yeah, my bad.History assignment got the best of me.”

“Alright...” The man doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but at least he wasn’t prodding.He was probably tired too.“Just get to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, dad.”With that the door shuts again softly.Stiles takes one last look at his computer screen; he’d just started down another rabbit hole, he didn’t want to lose his place.The battery could survive being in sleep mode until he had time to continue.

[...]

Greenberg has the subtlety of a drunk elephant.He stares at Stiles every time they’re in the same room.Curious, weary- waiting for an update or a sign, so obviously that not only does Jackson Whittemore notice it but he even decides it’s worth bringing up in the locker room that day.

"You have a crush or something, Greenberg?” He starts.Gym just finished, and again the taller teen was trying and failing to stealthily meet Stiles’ eyes on the way to their lockers.Stiles adamantly doesn’t look at the spectacle beginning.“I might actually feel bad for Stilinski if you keep giving him googly eyes like that.”

“Dude,” Danny interjects half-heartedly.Stiles can see Jackson’s equally uninterested shrug in defense without actually looking.

“It’s not a gay thing, it’s just fucking weird- look at him,” _and here it comes_.Stiles is halfway through changing, jeans replacing gym shorts and sweaty shirt still in his hands.“Stilinski’s a head case, and y’know he’d probably break if you kissed him too hard.Then again, stooping down to Greenberg’s level is probably the only way he’d get laid anyway.”

“Jackson-“ Greenberg tries, brushed aside immediately.

“How about it, Stilinski?”

“Sounds like you’re the only one here obsessed with my sex life, dude.”He deflects with a sigh, tugging a clean shirt on over his head.It puts a bad taste in his mouth.The implication was so immature he can’t find it in himself to be bothered by that much.Not like he might have been previously, back when Jackson did this kind of thing regularly because they had a dumb rivalry and Stiles hadn’t tried to kill himself yet.Since then the jock has been giving him a relatively easy time, at least in comparison to how he was with some others.Others like Greenberg, actually.Whatever leeway his time in the hospital granted him wouldn’t last forever though and he knew it.No one else took it easy on him, Jackson caught up slow but steady.He’s been dreading this moment because of it.The others just made fun of him for being crazy, but Jackson knew him.Jackson and he had a history.They got under each other’s skin, and Stiles couldn’t afford to have anything else under there.

Arguing lead to a fight, a fight lead to the office, the office lead to questions and longer talks and more pills or worse- he couldn’t do this again.

“Oh the spaz has jokes still?” Jackson grabs his shoulder to turn him around.

“Hey- leave him alone,” Greenberg snaps.

Stiles spares him a glance.He’s taller than Jackson too and still can’t manage to be even remotely intimidating.

“Protecting your boyfriend now?”

“No, I just-“

“Just what?”

Greenberg was at least successful is stealing the attention back, but the knot twisting up in Stiles’ gut doesn’t settle in the slightest.His shoulders tense, heart skipping a beat uncomfortably as he watches the jock step towards him.

He grabs Jackson’s arm, and he turns on Stiles quick; one hand bunched in the smaller teen’s shirt, clearly just as done with this conversation.

“What are you gonna do?” He taunts, jutting out his chin in defiance.“Hit me? Do it. In case you haven’t noticed, Whittemore, I have a pretty fucking good pain tolerance.”

Uncertainly, the other’s gaze flickers down to his pale, scarred forearm and back up.“Whatever.” He lets go with a small shove.

[...]

The mood is still sour when Stiles gets home, the entire day tainted by the incident in the locker room.  It was nothing more than bad jokes.  Playground teasing, yet things could have gotten out of hand so easily.

He can’t relax.

Between the lingering irritation and the fear that the barefoot woman could appear at any moment he was alone- Stiles had no peace.

Should he even call it a woman? It was wearing his father’s face.  What if the woman wasn’t it’s default at all but another disguise? Who else was it impersonating?  And I f it wasn’t following Stiles, was it following Greenberg today? Would he come running to Stiles’ house, or to the real sheriff if he saw it again?

He needed to suck it up and keep an eye on his classmate.  Stiles didn’t know him well enough to trust him with something so bizarre and dangerous like this.

 

Finally back in his own space, Stiles drops into his desk chair with a huff.  Backpack tossed onto the floor, shoes toed off now that he was at a still moment.  He drags a hand through his hair and idly thinks he’d like it better buzzed again, but he knew how that would look to his dad.  To Scott.  To his therapist.

Stiles opens his laptop, the tabs left open nearly forgotten until that moment.  He’d just started searching for Hebrew creatures.  For such a simple search there was a small list right at the top of the results, provided by google and Wikipedia.  He'd read about Lilith and the Leviathan before his dad came home.  Next was the Golem, the behemoth, both interesting enough but complete misses.  Then the dybbuk-

_In Jewish mythology, a **dybbuk**  (Yiddish: דיבוק, from the Hebrew verb דָּבַק dāḇaq meaning "adhere" or "cling") is a malicious possessing spirit believed to be the dislocated soul of a dead person. It supposedly leaves the host body once it has accomplished its goal, sometimes after being helped._

A ghost by the same logic of most horror movies, by the sound of it, featuring history in old exorcism and demonic possession talk.  A house being possessed as punishment for doubt, positive possessions with _righteous souls_.

_What does a dybbuk look like?_

Another rabbit hole begins.  He reads about the dybbuk box, separate pages for all sorts of spirits in Jewish lore.  Some describe it as a lost spirit, misguided.  Others as a sinner avoiding punishment.  Something that has to possess a living thing to get by, even as small as plants or animals.

_The people most often portrayed as being susceptible to possession are women..._

_A Dybbuk's appearance is perhaps among its most disturbing traits. While many malevolent spirits remain invisible or take on the form of some hideous monster, the Dybbuk looks very much like a human._

_In fact, it often resembles a person familiar to the community it invades; perhaps a beloved pillar of the community, a neighbor or relative of the person it attacks, or a close friend or even a lost love._

 

"Fuck..."  It's a smaller page.  Stiles reads over it three times before picking up his phone, uncaring to how his fingers have begun to shake(and in that light, he should check the time before doing anything else) until he realizes rather suddenly that he doesn't have Greenberg's number.  Or his address.  Or any way to find him.

A moment passes where the closest thing to noise was his own heartbeat.

Stiles calls his dad.


End file.
